


Rendre

by whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Three Musketeers (2011), Young Blades (2001)
Genre: 5000 words of PWP, A gift for Brea, Endurance - Freeform, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral, endurance abuse, forced pleasure, medium-high level dub-con, not-quite-rough rough sex, this is shameless smut ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Do not think, Gascon, that because I did not give you death, that I did not take your life.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A rewrite of what happened on the airship during the exchange of d'Artagnan and the diamonds, and the hostage. Some (Brea) would suggest this is the actual story. There is not enough literary evidence to suggest such, but then, there isn't any to suggest otherwise either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rendre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haanigram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haanigram/gifts).



> This has been a long, long, LONG, long time coming. I have owed this fic for many months and have finally gotten to it. I know a few of you have been waiting for it so I hope the wait was worth it.
> 
> This is a commission for Brea. I hope I did it justice for you bb!

_March, 1625_

_“Do not think, Gascon, that because I did not give you death, that I did not take your life.”_

-

_June, 1627_

The bridge is a sturdy thing but far from stable. D’Artagnan gives a cursory glance down as he places his foot on the end of it and lets his eyes run down the length of the thing where it connects to the other airship. He swallows, seeing Rochefort’s boot resting against the end, in a way similar to how d’Artagnan is placed. He takes another step to lift himself onto the bridge, and nods when Aramis murmurs the rest of the plan to him.

Don’t fight. Just wait. We’ll get you out and the necklace back.

He doubts he’ll have a problem with that, the last few years in Paris have certainly quelled his desire for rebellion. For a worthy cause, perhaps, but not when his friends’ lives were on the line. He wasn’t stupid, he had something to fight for now. Constance makes it perhaps ten steps before d’Artagnan starts walking as well. She gives him a look as he passes that he doesn’t return, just nods gently for her to step past him in a reassurance that they will talk again.

She steps around him, looks back, he walks on and doesn’t.

The end of the bridge comes too soon, and d’Artagnan sighs, taking the last step down to get his weight off the bridge. He doubts he’ll be tossed over, not with the way he can feel Rochefort looking at him, but best not tempt fate with the men he doesn’t owe. After a moment, he looks up.

Again that smile, that smug expression the man wears in such a way as to make it a badge of honor; d’Artagnan cannot find it in himself to mock the man for it. he had predicted it, promised it, and as hard as d’Artagnan had fought it, here he was. Rochefort doesn’t move, doesn’t do more than blink, just once.

“You never learn, do you?” it’s a murmur, a gentle thing, almost affectionate if not for what it was implying, and does nothing to soften the blow that strikes d’Artagnan hard against the back of his head, toppling him. not hard enough for him to lose consciousness, though. He supposes he would be so lucky.

Rochefort simply regards him, notes how the young Gascon doesn’t struggle, before kneeling to take the diamonds from him, weigh them in his palm, and issue his orders.

-

_March, 1625_

"Perhaps this explains your manners," Rochefort says at length, "But it certainly does not excuse them."

"My father's sword," d’Artagnan interrupts, "You have no right to it."

They stand close, not even a door as a barrier between them, since Rochefort has opened it; the older man tilting his head, mouth curved in amusement, the other almost radiating fury. Perhaps still sore from falling as gracelessly as he had, Rochefort supposes. He blinks.

"I bested you in a fight, that, need I remind you, you challenged me to. I could have taken your life."

D’Artagnan glares, eyes narrowed in a look that sat petulant on his features rather than menacing. He can see the sword resting by the window, thankfully undamaged. He makes to enter the room and is stopped with a firm hand against his chest.

"Do you always enter rooms without being invited in?" if anything, Rochefort's tone is amused, taunting. D’Artagnan bares his teeth at the sound before tilting his head up to meet the man's eyes.

"What of it?" he is tired, still sore from the fall and the cuts landed on him before he lost his sword. He is far from willing to trade pleasantries. "You have my property, and I wish to reclaim it."

Rochefort doesn't move for a moment, before removing his hand. It is not an invitation but he no longer bars the door with his body. D’Artagnan pushes past, with blind single-minded determination to reclaim a sword he isn't worthy of, and Rochefort closes and bolts the door behind him.

D’Artagnan feels the barrier more than hears it lock into place. But he's armed now, and in such proximity could do more damage to the man than Rochefort could land on him. He does have the advantage of both his eyes and no blindspot. When he turns, he stands en garde. The commander simply laughs, a single huff of air through his nose before fixing the young man with a dark stare.

"This is Paris." he says, as though talking to a simpleton, "It is quite a statement to enter a man's room uninvited here. It means something."

D’Artagnan just blinks. Rochefort's smile grows by a degree.

"Put the sword down before I beat you with it."

-

_June, 1627_

D’Artagnan is pleased, at least, that he can hold up his own weight without resting on something or falling over. he’s made the mistake around the man before, it had not ended well for either of them. He doesn’t fight now, just balances, the ship’s sails creaking near the window of the main cabin both he and Rochefort are in. the other doesn’t so much as glance at him, but d’Artagnan is certain he can see every move he makes, single-eyed disability aside.

For long moments, neither speak. The ship beneath them shifts and changes course, no doubt to follow the musketeers to fully decimate their little vessel, and d’Artagnan absently watches the shadows bend and shift until the new course is settled on. He can’t help them, not where he is.

Don’t fight, Aramis had told him, just wait.

“Two years,” Rochefort says finally, cocking his head a little to see d’Artagnan better. The other just flicks his eyes up. “Certainly adds up to a lot of debt.”

D’Artagnan draws his bottom lip into his mouth just enough to gently bite down on it but says nothing. He remembers, remembers how he had foolishly entered into a devil’s bargain with this man to retrieve his father’s sword, to attempt to keep some modicum of honor.

_"This is Paris, boy. A duel here is to the death, nothing less."_

The man had spared him immediate death but he had made it very clear that he had taken his life, that once that debt came due, d’Artagnan would feel it soundly. He belonged to the man completely, absolutely, and while for two years he had successfully avoided him, pretended he was free enough to fight and drink and laugh, fall in love and woo, the debt had inevitably come due. 

He nods, just once, before tilting his head up further and stepping closer. He remembers, too, what was implied his payment would be, and how the longer he dragged out the inevitable, the more he would find himself paying. Rochefort blinks, sniffing once in that disdainful way d’Artagnan has grown to detest, before stepping around the large desk by the window and walking closer to the young man.

He does nothing more than grasp d’Artagnan’s chin, tilt it up until the man is frowning in discomfort, before letting him go and issuing his order.

“Strip.”

He doesn’t regard the Gascon as he steps away, knowing his order will be obeyed, if slowly and reluctantly. He has seen the young man over the years, watched his skills with the blade grow, watched how close he became with those musketeers, watched as he set his eyes on the beautiful girl Rochefort had recently freed from his ship… he had watched and he had waited, knowing that the longer d’Artagnan delayed the more he would lose, the harder he’d fall.

And so for a long time, Rochefort hadn’t encouraged their meeting. Because this… this was just too sweet, when he can take so much from him.

He doesn’t move to undress himself, he’ll make d’Artagnan do it in due time, but he does make his way back around the desk and draws the chair out and around to sit on, comfortable. He rests the heel of one boot against the chair leg, knee bent, the other leg drawn out against the plush carpet on the floor. He watches d’Artagnan take his time folding his things away, perhaps prolonging the inevitable even now, before he looks up again and waits.

Rochefort gestures. Pleasingly, d’Artagnan comes on command.

He is a pleasing looking boy, the captain has always thought so, but there’s something about the bitterness of defeat, that resigned look in his eyes that makes him that much more appealing. Not quite broken but cracked enough for Rochefort to add the pressure he needs to shatter him. for a moment he does nothing more than let himself take the boy in, glances lingering long enough to notice how d’Artagnan’s muscles tense, how he shifts but determinedly doesn’t step away.

“Kneel.” He allows finally, watching, amused, as the boy reluctantly obeys that order too.

D’Artagnan does not give the man the satisfaction of watching him balk, much as he would rather be fighting his way out of the cabin, killing as many guards as he can before being taken down. He knows this is an inevitability, knows that it will add up, more and more, if he avoids it now. He doubts the man plans to kill him, he will get far more satisfaction out of humiliating him and bringing him down.

He regards Rochefort as the man watches him, after a moment shifting his knee to swing out a little wider, implication clear. His jaw works a little as he swallows before sitting up and closer, hands coming up to undo the clasps at the front of the man’s pants. His brows are furrowed, displeasure written clearly on his face, and he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when he feels a hand in his hair tugging until his face lifts enough to look at the man properly.

“You will enjoy this, Gascon.”

D’Artagnan blinks. The tone does not suggest reassurance, it does not even suggest an offer. It is an order, just as the others had been, and it takes d’Artagnan a moment to realize what the man wants from him. in truth, he’s more disgusted by the idea than he is of what else the man wants to do to him. vulnerability is not something he wants to give the man freely, and here’s he’s being forced to give it before degrading himself further.

His eyes search the Rochefort’s face, to find only amused victory there, the knowledge that the order will not be ignored, just as d’Artagnan had soundlessly obeyed the others. Their eyes meet for a moment before d’Artagnan looks away, lips pressing together and jaw working, and brings the palm of his hand up to his face to lick a thick wet stripe against it.

He leans in again as his own hand ventures down, and he gasps quietly at the familiar warm pressure, before closing his eyes and using his other hand to line Rochefort up enough to slide his lips over him in silent, hateful obedience.

For all his determination to be obstinate, d’Artagnan finds the rhythm easy enough to fall into. Perhaps because he can forget himself with the way his own fist feels against him, familiar and good, or perhaps because he knows the quicker he succumbs to this humiliation the easier it will be on him in the long run. It will be over, if anything, just a horrible memory he will never share and in time forget.

The captain leans back, humming his pleasure, and lets one hand linger in the boy’s hair as he lets him suck, tongue pressed against the underside of his cock to create a pleasing pressure and wonderful friction. It doesn’t take long before his fingers curl harsher in d’Artagnan’s hair and he pulls him in closer, holding him still when he struggles to get away. It doesn’t last long, the struggle, before d’Artagnan makes a quiet sound of discomfort and adjusts, bringing his hands up to rest against the man’s knees for support.

“Hands down.”

A quick flick of light eyes, a flash of the most passionate hatred, and then obedience. Rochefort smiles and leans back farther to enjoy this new depth and heat as the boy’s mouth works him closer and closer to the edge.

For his part, d’Artagnan keeps his fist loose, once he works himself close enough to be difficult to keep his head. His jaw aches from how wide he keeps his mouth, he can feel the tug against his hair over and over and over as he presses closer then away, adjusting his angle and humming malcontent. By the time the captain pushes him away, apparently satisfied, d’Artagnan is panting for air and embarrassingly hard in his own hand.

Lips wet, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, it’s almost worth watching him tear himself apart before taking him, and yet Rochefort wants endurance from d’Artagnan, to have him beg for any leeway and lenience. And he will have him that way, sooner, he supposes, than later. He allows the Gascon time to catch his breath, he wants him conscious, certainly, before leaning closer and drawing his thumb over the boy’s lower lip, wiping the spit and precome away.

D’Artagnan watches him and doesn’t move, doesn’t vindictively bite the man as he so wants to, knowing it would lead to far worse consequences than what is planned for him already. He endures it, narrows his eyes and waits.

The anger sits beautifully on him, cold and bright and the only power he still truly has here, and Rochefort admires it, admires the way his eyes project hatred, how his mouth sits held open by his hand, but set in a line suggestion tension and the desperate need to bite. He draws the pad of his thumb over d’Artagnan’s bottom teeth, teasing him, taunting and the boy’s eyes narrow further.

Without a word his hand slides away, back further up his jaw, behind d’Artagnan’s ears and to his hair, and grips tight enough to hurt, for the anger to change, for a moment, to pain – which sits so much better on his features – and yanks him up. First to his knees then further, in the uncomfortable space between kneeling and standing that he keeps him in until d’Artagnan is forced to bend forward, hands against Rochefort for balance.

The message is clear enough: I own your balance. I own your endurance. I own you.

D’Artagnan endures, for a minute, two, before he struggles, twisting away and back, trying to get out of Rochefort’s grip. The captain turns his hand, enough to tilt the boy’s head back further, bend his back in a pleasing line. And he’s a pleasure to look at, flushed and angry, hard against his stomach leaving translucent lines of precome over his skin. d’Artagnan lets out a frustrated snarl and Rochefort slaps him, hard enough to leave his cheek smarting, enough to silence d’Artagnan on shock alone. He stops struggling, for just a moment, eyes wide and lips parted.

“Endure.” Comes the command, low and even, and d’Artagnan makes a soft noise of misery, but does.

He holds him long enough for the boy to tremble, for his eyes to close and his brows to furrow in discomfort, then outright pain. and then the sounds, soft, barely audible whimpers, harsh exhales and little groans. Then they grow louder, and d’Artagnan’s hands are shaking where they hold, one hand against the chair, the other on Rochefort’s knee. The captain watches, moves to sit back and pull d’Artagnan with him so the other’s feet slip and he falls enough to feel the painful yank against his hair as he does. The cry is no longer angry, it is very much defeated.

And his eyes. Beautiful, wide, light eyes, pupils blown and just pleading with him, begging to be let down.

It takes a few moments more, when d’Artagnan’s hand slips against the chair, but he does it.

“Please,” it’s soft, a desperate thing but audible, “Please let me go.”

He’s answered with a tug, a painful pull against his already protesting scalp for him to stand, before being pushed heavily against the flat of the desk in front of him. then Rochefort lets him go.

“Get your feet under you.”

Had he not responded so beautifully, the exercise would have been rather a dull one. But he had gotten what he wanted. He had watched d’Artagnan suffer for him, obediently, pleasingly, and for as long as Rochefort had desired it. he knows the lesson will be forgotten quickly, but he has time to teach it again, and with such results, certainly a desire to as well.

The sting disappears and d’Artagnan groans, resting his weight against the cool wood and just letting the pain ease, throbbing through his muscles but now only in memory. Endure, he’d been told. And endure he had. It was enough, surely, for the man’s sick pleasure. It takes a moment, but he finds himself following the latest command quickly enough, setting his bare feet against the plush rug on the floor, first on tiptoes to stretch his muscles loose, then flat.

He feels strong fingers against his hip first, tenses, and closes his eyes as they slide lower, enough to curl around him and start a slow, tight rhythm. D’Artagnan makes a quiet sound and draws one of his arms close enough to bite. It’s not long before he’s rolling his hips against it, slow, but obvious enough in its intent. He wants more, he wants to be brought over and left alone. He stops shifting when Rochefort steps closer, presses his hips against him and leans over d’Artagnan’s back.

He’s heavy against him, and hard, and d’Artagnan thinks back to the deal made two years ago, to the stupid decision he’d made to get his damned sword, and makes a weak, helpless sound.

“Don’t,” he breathes, letting go of his arm and feeling the impressions of his teeth against the skin when he turns his cheek against it instead, “Don’t, I’ll find another way to pay it.”

“And how would you suggest?” Rochefort murmurs, wondering how long he could draw out the boy’s hope before crushing him. he would take his debt due, already two years owing. Something stirs in his chest, a momentary lapse in intent, and then it’s gone. Beneath him, d’Artagnan shifts.

“I don’t – I don’t know. Anything else?” his breathing’s picking up, a panic he hasn’t allowed himself since he’d entered the room, too proud to show it, “I could use my mouth again… hands? You can torture me again but –“

He struggles before he realizes he’s doing it, twisting against the table – he has more leverage here – trying to buck Rochefort off and managing only to have the man pin him harder. He whines, aiming a kick behind himself blind and finds his legs held open by stronger ones between them.

The fight is admirable, but no longer beautiful. The cruelty of the captain extended only so far; he killed only the disloyal, tortured for a cause, took his pleasure with those at least partially willing. This he would have, but he would not have it this way. He catches one struggling arm to pin behind d’Artagnan’s back, lacing his fingers with his to keep the grip tighter, to stop him twisting his wrist from his grasp and moving to get away. His other he curls in d’Artagnan’s hair and draws his head up, another loud, weak sound escaping the young man as he does.

“Ease your fight,” he hisses, tugging d’Artagnan’s arm a little higher up his back until it hurts, before easing it down again, “I want you broken, Gascon, not damaged.”

It’s perhaps the tone – one momentary lapse becoming two – or the way sudden pain was taken away and not kept up, that stops d’Artagnan’s struggles for the moment. His eyes still closed, lips pressed together in a tight grimace of fear. The captain holds him still a moment longer before releasing his hold and allowing d’Artagnan to curve his shoulders forward, duck his forehead against the table. The hand in his relaxes, for the moment defeated. Rochefort does not let him loose.

He brings his free hand down to stroke him again, finding d’Artagnan still responsive, though perhaps reluctant. He coaxes enough from him to slick his fingers, to feel the young man roll his hips into the touch again, before drawing his hand back and pressing wet fingers just behind his balls, massaging the sweet spot just behind that, and moving higher still until he can press the tip of his finger against d’Artagnan’s hole and ease his way in.

Cruelty extends so far. He will have the boy, he will own him, but he will not destroy him. he holds tight to his arm, tugs it up in warning when d’Artagnan squirms, but he does not push more than he can take. Slowly insinuating then removing, over and over until the pressure isn’t as harsh, until d’Artagnan’s breathing is a little more even. Then he adds another, and begins the process again.

It’s less gentle and more careful, but it’s enough to calm the Gascon to not do himself harm.

D’Artagnan’s heart hammers against the heavy wood of the desk, his body poised between disgusted terror and a strange seeping arousal. It’s not painful, but it is an ache, one he can feel growing stronger as Rochefort pushes deeper against him. he can’t move away, won’t get far if he tries, and he closes his eyes tightly before he can do something humiliating like cry. He finds, however, that he does something far more humiliating when Rochefort’s fingers seek and bend: he begs.

“Again?” Rochefort’s voice curls around the words, the smile evident, “You must earn ‘again’.”

“How?” he still won’t open his eyes, voice rougher but quiet. He gets no answer for the moment, just the gentle press of two fingers into and out of him. and then even that stops, and he finds himself pushing back to keep the pressure going. The feeling is familiar now, and wanted, and he pushes back enough to feel his cock rub against the underside of the desk before he realizes he’s moving and not being moved.

He presses forward again to stop but finds himself rewarded before he can. This time when he tries to muffle his cry against the table he finds he can’t, the sound bouncing off the surface and betraying him. this time when Rochefort asks ‘again?’, d’Artagnan raises himself onto his toes and arches his back to press back harder.

This is the sort of control the captain wants over his boy. To have him pliant and obedient, controlled with the threat of no pleasure, not of more pain. and he holds him there, at the cusp of endurance’s end, until d’Artagnan is panting out quiet sobs for mercy, hips still relentlessly pushing back and back and back. So he obliges him, removes his fingers, adjusts his grip on his hand so as not to hurt him when he leans over again, the buttons of his coat sliding a little over the sweat-slick skin.

The breach isn’t painful, it’s slow and deliberate and it doesn’t cease but it is not painful. D’Artagnan ducks his head, watching his breath fog against the smooth wood in quick pants as he’s given perhaps a second to adjust before a rhythm is set. It’s harsh and deep and quick, and draws low needy sounds from d’Artagnan before he has the presence of mind to draw his free hand close and bite down. But even that luxury is taken away, Rochefort’s hand moving to clasp that arm as well, tugging it free and stretched above d’Artagnan’s head, where he weaves their fingers together as he had with his other.

“You will enjoy this, Gascon.” He repeats, tone low and smooth against d’Artagnan’s ear, and the young man surrenders. Allows the whimpers to be pushed from him, arches up into the pounding rhythm, again and again until they’re moving together, as opposed to one against the other. And for a few moments he can forget, that this is under duress, that this is against his wishes, with a man he considers not just his enemy but his nemesis; he allows himself to succumb to pleasure, to moan it loud against the desk, to show it with every shiver over his skin.

And he comes first, the sound accompanying it broken and wet, like a sob but harsher, and his fingers press hard against those between them, and the pressure is allowed. Rochefort growls something against him and follows him over not three thrusts later, pressed hard against d’Artagnan from hips to shoulders.

They still a long time, neither wanting to move – d’Artagnan unable to – before there’s a knock on the door.

“Captain?”

D’Artagnan stills, tense again as the glow fades to reality, he shifts, Rochefort presses him against the desk.

“Be still.” He tells him. d’Artagnan obeys. To the door, he calls, “Have you caught them?”

“Sir, they’ve flown into a storm…”

D’Artagnan feels the growl rather than hears it. he tries to shift again and feels himself pressed harder against the wooden surface.

“Then follow them.”

There’s shuffling outside the door, impatient or nervous it’s difficult to say, but for a moment Rochefort turns his teeth against the smooth skin of d’Artagnan’s shoulder and presses down. By the time an answer comes, the young man is suppressing a needy pained little whimper against the lip between his teeth.

“Sir, steering will be… difficult…”

Rochefort grins, teeth sinking that little bit deeper to finally draw a keen from d’Artagnan that he knows will be heard through the door, before lifting his mouth away.

“Alright.” He calls, waiting for the man at the door to leave before ducking his head to murmur, “useless,” against d’Artagnan’s skin and pull out and away from him.

D’Artagnan sags against the table, curls into himself. Reality hits him like cold water; where he is, who with, what this means. He’s shaking by the time Rochefort walks around the table and leans over to force d’Artagnan’s chin up so he can look at him.

“You will wait.” He tells him, indicating with his chin towards the back of the chamber where there is a bed, large and curtained, with soft, warm-looking furs and velvet. D’Artagnan shakes his head.

“You’re about to kill my friends.” He swallows, “You won’t find me here when you come back.”

He expects anger, another strike, perhaps a low, amused sound of derision, but instead he sees a completely blank expression, the one eye that meets his searching his face for a moment before the hand against his chin falls away.

“I have no reason to see them dead.” Comes the reply, and then there are footsteps to the door, heavy and final, before d’Artagnan hears his final command.

“You _will_ wait.”

The door is only opened enough for the captain to step out, the key turning heavy in the lock behind him, and then d’Artagnan is alone, with only the windows as viable options for escape.

He peels himself from the desk, takes a moment to regain his balance before limping to the nearest one to look out. they are headed for a storm, he can barely make out the sails of the airship his friends are flying ahead, and the approach they’re taking is not one aimed at attack, but simply pursuit.

He watches for a while, long enough for exhaustion to lower his eyelids, for the soreness of his muscles to protest standing. He regards the door again, knowing trying the lock would be futile. He has no desire to end his life out the windows. He retrieves his pants and shirt and dresses, turning to crawl into the bed and curl into a ball in the middle.

He isn’t sure how long it takes him to fall asleep, but he is awoken to dark windows and a stillness that suggests they’ve landed, and the warm backs of knuckles running up and down his cheek.


End file.
